Beauty from Destruction
by bitchinblackframedglasses
Summary: Gibbs and the team wind up with a case that looks like a 'justified' murder and it threatens to make Gibbs break rule #10. Can the team solve the case; will they be able to handle the truth? Rated T for brief violence.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first NCIS fanfiction. I wrote it a long time ago and it's been sitting on my computer for far too long. This is a casefic that manages to be wrapped up in 8 short chapters. Cool, huh? The only reason this story is being posted is because I'm cleaning out all of my old folders of fanfiction before I go to college. I hope you enjoy the story!**

****This is really embarrassing, but I caught this mistake as I was uploading the chapters. The team investigates a murder, but the man killed is a _marine, _not a _naval officer._ That is a really awful and horrible mistake. If you can play along and forgive me for such a stupid error, I think you'll enjoy the story...hopefully.****

* * *

_Rayne_

"Hey, do you have an A/C hose that would fit an Acura MDX from 2004?" A kind, quick drawl jerks me out of my daze. It's Tuesday morning, boring and slow in the shop. I didn't even hear the kind little lady in front of me come in from the scorching summer heat. She had a southern drawl—not from here. I was actually surprised that she knew exactly what part she needed. You didn't see that so much these days.

"Yes, ma'am," I responded, flashing her a quick smile to make up for my daydreaming, getting up and stretching to reach the part she needed off the wall, wincing when I felt the wounds on my thigh stretch. "This should do the trick for you."

"Thanks, you have no idea how much I needed this part." She said gratefully as I rung up the A/C hose, bagging it for her. "Do you accept AAA cards?" She asked, pulling out an insurance card instead of money to pay for the part.

"We do, I just have to get a form for you to fill out. One sec," I said, filling with dread as I headed for the office. Dad was probably nursing a hangover in there—I didn't want to make him mad by waking him up. I crossed the shop and fished my keys out of my pocket. When I went to put them in the lock, I realized that there was a bullet in the there instead—we'd been broken into. That was just _perfect. _I'd probably take the blame for something Dad did in a drunken stupor. With a sigh, I pushed the door open, ready to take the insults. Luckily, he was still passed out cold, his forehead resting on the desk. Walking closer, I jerked to a halt when I noticed the dark red pool of blood around his head. Even though I didn't want to, I inched closer, around the edge of the desk, and got a look at his face.

_He was dead._

* * *

_McGee_

"Where the hell are we?" DiNozzo asked blearily, getting out of the car and blinking in the harsh sunlight. The summer heat was making waves across the landscape, and the asphalt was radiating overwhelming warmth. Looking around, I silently asked the same question. We were in front of a high metal fence and gate, which were open, leading to a dirt yard, full of cars, parts, tires and huge oil drums. There was one ranch style house across the street, but the rest of the road was deserted. The sidewalk was old, cracked, and home to many different kinds of weeds. The dirt in the motoryard in front of us was cracked and rock hard, packed firmly down and dried under the merciless sun. It was hard to believe we were even in Virginia—it felt like we were in the deep South. The setting was intriguing, and I tucked it away for later story writing.

"Dumfries, Virginia," Ziva stated, examining the _PRIVATE PROPERTY _sign on the gate to the junkyard we were in front of. She was used to the heat. After all, she _did_ come from Israel.

"You mean Hickville." Tony corrected in a grumble, pulling his baseball cap lower over his forehead, trying to block some of the sun.

"Hello, there!" Ducky greeted us cheerfully, suddenly appearing at the gate, watching Palmer try to push the gurney holding the body over the rough ground with slight amusement. "I'd stay and chat, but it's dreadfully hot, and cadavers and heat don't mix, do they, Mr. Palmer?"

"Absolutely not, Doctor." Palmer said, half listening, half forcing the gurney over the broken sidewalk and to the autopsy truck.

"Hey, you three coming or what?" Gibbs asked in irritation, appearing beside Ducky. In the heat he had ditched his coffee early and the lack of caffeine made him grumpier than ever.

"Of course we are, Boss, we were just admiring the lovely weeds growing in the sidewalk," Tony said loudly, adjusting his hat again, ducking quickly past Gibbs before he could be slapped for being a smart aleck. I followed Ziva in, craning my head up to look at the huge, tall stacks of cars that seemed to scrape the sky. It seemed like every car ever made had wound its way up here and collapsed. A few yards away, half hidden among cars, was a small steel building with car parts in the window—so this place actually inhabited people. That was reassuring.

"Tony, process the office and shop with Ziva. McGee, you're with me." Gibbs ordered, and I nearly groaned out loud. Of course Ziva and Tony would get to go into air conditioning while I had to walk around a desert for clues. For the next hour I swallowed all complaints and pain and looked among the cars, oil barrels and junk, trying to find something that was evidence and not trash.

"Not much there boss, just the two bullets and all the bloody papers on the desk. We did find all of these files in the office though—thought we could take them with us." Tony sounded much too cheerful when he crossed the scorching dirt towards Gibbs and I, sticking to the slightly cooler shade created by the stacks of cars. He sat down two boxes and I nearly groaned again; they were all paper files, not digital, and it'd be my job to go through them all. Ziva raised two sealed evidence bags for Gibbs' inspection when he turned to glare at them.

"You'll need a warrant for those files." A cool but definitely unfriendly voice came from nowhere, making Gibbs shoot up, hand resting on his gun. Ziva did the same, looking around for the source of the voice. I slowly stood up, trying to pinpoint the sound.

"Whose there? Show yourself." Gibbs commanded, not in the mood today for games.

"Up here," The voice said calmly, and we all turned around, shielding our eyes against the sun and looking up at the highest car tower in the lot, at least three stories tall, supported by other, shorter stacks around it. Sitting at the very, _very_ top was a person, an old fashioned BB-gun resting next to them. Against the harsh glare of the sun, all I could discern was a black silhouette. "And like I said, you'll need a warrant if you want those files."

"NCIS, Federal Agents. Come down from there." Gibbs ordered. The person slung the strap of the BB gun over their shoulder and started the long descent down, climbing down the cars as if it was a cliff with a quick ease, but their gait was weighted more to their right side, as if they had a limp. As they got out of the glare of the sun, I realized it was a teenage girl. She had two brown braids trailing down her shoulders that were full of natural highlights, very tan skin from the sun, and _lots_ of freckles. She had on khaki walking shorts, army style, a white tank top, and sandals. "Why are you trespassing in a crime scene?" Gibbs demanded as soon as her feet touched the ground.

"One, no one asked me to leave, two, the actual crime scene is in the shop, and three, I'm the dead bastards' daughter." The girl said sharply, picking up on Gibbs' gruff manner instantly. Ziva, Tony and I exchanged looks while Gibbs just stared at the girl a minute. "Now, can I help you?" She continued, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.

"Yeah," Gibbs said, clearly irritated. "You can come in for questioning about your father's death, Ms…?"

"Rayne. Rayne Grean, and I'm not answering any questions until you have just cause to bring me in for questioning." She said crossing her arms, not backing down, which was surprising, with Gibbs on the warpath and all.

"I'll have you arrested for hindering a federal investigation." Gibbs threatened.

"You can try, sir, but that would be against the law." She said frostily, not breaking eye contact. "When you have a damn good reason to talk to me and take those files, you'll have to prove it. Until then—"

"Do not play games with me," Gibbs said dangerously, taking an intimidating step forward.

"You marines are all the same. No one is above the law." Rayne said disgustedly, raising her chin in defiance. Gibbs eyes flashed angrily, but before he could rip the girl's head off, his cell phone rang. He whirled around and flipped it open, storming away.

"Are you the one who found the body?" Ziva asked, not missing a beat.

"Yes," She answered, slinging her BB gun off her shoulder and leaning it against the mountain of cars behind her. As Ziva asked her about the positioning of the body, I snuck a look at Gibbs. He was standing in the shade of a car stack across the lot, brows furrowed as he listened to the person on the phone. He still looked pissed.

"Did you hear anything last night, like, gee, I don't know, a gun going off?" Tony asked rudely, breaking me from my day dream.

"In case you didn't notice, there is a shooting range three miles from here. I heard about twenty gunshots last night." Rayne said frostily, clearly not intimidated by Tony either. Ziva snorted in laughter, but turned it quickly into a cough. She probably found the whole situation amusing.

* * *

_Gibbs_

"What?" I snarled into my phone, stalking away from the girl, trying not to arrest her. She'd been right about everything, and it was irritating. She reminded me of Allison Hart.

"I have preliminary autopsy reports already, if you want them." Ducky said calmly, as if I hadn't snarled at him.

"What do you got, Duck?" I asked, trying to calm down.

"Well, one bullet, right in the forehead was the cause of death, but this man was well on his way before he strayed across the bullet's path. His liver was so full of fat, it took me a while to actually find any real liver cells. This man had a severe case of alcoholic cirrhosis. He's probably been drinking very heavily for about fourteen years." Duck explained, sounding disgusted. He was touchy about people destroying their bodies for no reason; to him, they were more important than anything. I glanced at the girl, Rayne. She was sizing up DiNozzo, even though he had a good two feet in height on her. Maybe that's why she was so unfriendly. "You know, I once met a man in Wales-" Ducky started, but I cut him off, not in the mood for one of his long stories.

"Thanks, Duck." I hung up and walked back over, letting myself get mean again. She wasn't going to get away with her last comment about the marine core. "Your father was a drinker, huh?" I asked, and she stiffened, turning away from DiNozzo to glare at me with unmasked hatred.

"It got him kicked out of the marine core two summers ago. Now, can I help you with anything else?" She changed the topic fast—I'd hit a sore spot. Good.

"No. But we'll be back," I promised, stepping closer, turning it into a threat. She said nothing, just glared at me with angry brown eyes, and I felt her gaze on us as we left, getting into the car. "Don't get too comfortable. DiNozzo, go across the street and talk to the neighbor. Ziva, go to the shooting range, back up her story. What was her alibi?" I asked.

"She didn't have one. She apparently spent the night in that tower of cars, and started work at seven this morning. She did not worry about where her father was." Ziva supplied. "Her father was a drunk?"

"According to Ducky, Private Grean has been drinking heavily for fourteen years." I replied.

"This is gunna be a tough one, huh, boss?" DiNozzo asked in his loud, probing voice that got under your skin, and I turned and gave him a death glare. "Right, well, see ya," he said hastily, ducking out of the car and crossing the street to talk to the neighbor.

"Ziva, we'll drop you off at the shooting range and I'll come back to pick up you and DiNozzo. McGee, you're with me," I ordered, starting up the car and peeling out.


	2. Chapter 2

_McGee_

"Got anything for me, McGee?" Gibbs asked in his dangerous 'you better have something' voice about an hour later, coming back up from the morgue with a stony expression.

"Yes, boss, plasma," I directed him, getting up from my computer. "Meet Private Stuart Grean, 32 years old. Discharged from the marine core two years ago for seven cases of public drunkenness. Married a Samantha Lee from Richmond right after he joined the core, and they moved to Dumfries. They had one daughter, Rayne. The mother apparently died four years after Rayne was born. Grean has been arrested six times for DUI's, three times for public intoxication, and four times for disturbing the peace in the past _year._ He's pretty much a loser," I added unashamedly, even when Gibbs shot me a look.

"Enemies?" Gibbs asked, looking at the picture of Private Grean on the plasma, brow furrowed.

"None, and his list of friends is pretty short, just a buddy from the Marine Core who was discharged for embezzlement and a friend from highschool who is currently in prison for murder."

"Anything on the kid?" Gibbs asked, looking disgruntled at the very thought of Rayne.

"Not much. She just graduated from high school, surprisingly, with a four point grade average. She's going to study law, according to the school's guidance counselor. She's eighteen. Other than that, nothing, no criminal record at all." I finally dared to look fully at Gibbs. He looked very, _very _thoughtful, which was never a good thing.

* * *

_Ziva_

"Was anyone shooting last night before you closed?" I asked the man at the counter, trying to ignore how he was fighting down giggles. Apparently, my gender amused him. The shooting range only consisted of wooden pavilions made from scraps and spray painted boards at the end, and the folk here were just as…jumbled.

"Hell yes, little lady! We had a bet goin' on down here last night, about six or seven men all riled up n' such. We was shootin', until ten at night." He said proudly, and I barely resisted the urge to shoot him when he called me 'little lady'.

"Do you know the Greans?" I asked, and he snorted, slapping the worn counter between us.

"Do I? Hell yes, little lady! Rayne's one of the best shots I ever seen. Rarely comes to the range though, and only shoots that little BB gun of hers. It's a damn shame. If she trained for a summer- _dayum _she'd be the best shot in all of Virginia."

"How about her father?" I asked, trying desperately to keep my patience. Gibbs would not like it if I hurt this man.

"Eh, he comes around once and a while. He's usually too drunk to shoot straight, so he can only watch." The man in front of me suddenly got very sober and almost angry looking, restacking a pile of pamphlets on revolvers with too much force.

"Do you not like Mr. Grean?" I asked, pouncing on the movement and his sudden change in attitude. The man shrugged.

"No one does, little lady." He said unflinchingly, clearly uncomfortable.

"Why not?" I asked.

"It's not my place." He said. Confused, I looked back at the ramshackle range in front of me. Why would an entire town hate one man, even when he was dead? What could he have done that would make that many people dislike him that intensely?

"I'm going to need every gun you lease here for testing, and the records of who leased which gun in the past month." I said, turning back to the man. He just shrugged, going to get them. Frowning, I looked back at the range. Did this town hate Private Grean because he was a drunk?

* * *

_DiNozzo_

The one place I did not expect to be today was in an old fashioned kitchen, watching an old lady pour me lemonade, jabbering on about how she knew everyone in town, as if they were all her grandchildren. The neighbor was old, tiny, and shouted instead of speaking like a normal person. Her house smelled like crème fraiche. I _hated _crème fraiche. "Mrs. Marshall," I raised my voice to address her, ending her rant on the Hendersons' poodle's new litter or something stupid like that. "What can you tell me about the Greans?" Just like that, she plopped down, tapping the table with one long fingernail.

"I tell ya, son, I know the Greans better than anyone in this town here. I was here through it all." She boasted, and I could tell that she was just waiting to gossip.

"I'm sure you do. What can you tell me?" I asked, playing along (her lemonade _was_ delicious).

"Grean's moved here in 93'. Cutest little couple you ever did see. Stuart wasn't hittin' the bottle back then, no sir. And Samantha, his wife, she was so purty. They had a baby nine months later. Samantha named her Rayne, cause it was rainin' so hard the day she was born." Mrs. Marshall sighed in nostalgia, and when she didn't continue, I prodded her.

"So then what happened?" I asked, noting that there was no mother in sight when we showed up to investigate.

"Stuart opened the shop the same year that Samantha got leukemia. They couldn't afford no fancy doctor, and the poor little thing died in less than a year. Rayne was four years old. It sent Stuart right over the edge, even though he'd had drinkin' problems before they moved here. I used to take Rayne off his hands all the time so he could go drinkin' and carousin'. Man's a bad egg." She said, her tone suddenly getting clipped.

"You're a wonderful storyteller, and the lemonade is delicious." I complimented her, hoping to get to the really nitty gritty gossip. The old lady blushed, lightly swatting my arm.

"You's just a'messin' with me, don't you be teasin' Mrs. Marshall, no sir." She ordered. I grinned, laying on the charm.

"Could you tell me more about the Greans? All the stuff you know and nobody else does?" I asked, and she sat back, frowning.

"I hate to tell ya, son, but everyone here in this town knows what I'm about to tell ya." She said, the excited, proud tone in her voice dropping quickly. "Stuart's been a'beatin' Rayne since she was six years old." She nodded sadly, seeing something in my expression. "She'd go to school all the time with a black eye, a hurt shoulder. She'd come to me in the night sometimes all shook up. But she ain't never gone to the police, and they don't got enough evidence to lock the man up for it. Now that she's eighteen, she was a'leavin' town, and Stuart didn't like that, no sir."

"Do you know if that's the only abuse she took?" I asked, getting a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Rayne was looking more and more like the prime suspect in her father's murder, and if it was justified but not self defense, it would be a long, difficult case to get over. Mrs. Marshall took a cookie off of a little tray of them, dipping it into her tea.

"Well, there just ain't no way of knowin', is there? Rayne's never said a word, not to anyone, not even 'ter me." Mrs. Marshall said, setting down the soggy cookie to look at me. "You ain't gonna do her no wrong, are you? Cause, sir, Rayne don't deserve it." She said strongly, looking at me as if she could see every sin on my soul.

"We're here to investigate, ma'am. Sadly, whatever we find is whatever we find." I chose a noncommittal answer, but it seemed to satisfy Mrs. Marshall. "Anything else you can tell me, anything important?" I asked, and she thought awhile then perked up, taking another little cookie.

"Oh, yes. Goodness yes, how did I forget? Samantha, bless her heart, worked herself to exhaustion paying for a life insurance policy. Stuart got the money when she died, a whoppin' five hundred grand." She apparently liked this gossip, and so did I. If that wasn't motive, I didn't know what was.

"Five hundred thousand dollars?" I clarified, sitting up straighter, especially when I heard a car pull around and stop outside of the house—that had to be Gibbs.

"You betcha. Enough money for a lifetime, if you ask me." Mrs. Marshall said with a firm nod. After refusing (regretfully) some cookies and more lemonade, I went back out into the baking sun and gratefully slid into the air conditioned car, turning to face Gibbs, already feeling that my face was grim. I hated cases like this, they never seemed fair. Prosecuting someone that'd been hurt so badly was always haunting.

"Got anything?" Gibbs asked at the same time as Ziva, doing a U-turn and pulling out. This was going to suck, everyone was interested in this case already.

"According to the neighbor, the Greans moved here in 1993. Four years later, the mom dies of leukemia, leaving behind an insurance policy worth five hundred thousand dollars." I rattled off, and Gibbs' scowl got fiercer; there was money involved. That always made things complicated. "Private Grean got the money, but apparently hasn't used it on much. He went off his rocker with his wife's death and started drinking again."

"This is a FUNBAR." Ziva said mildly.

"FUBAR." I corrected. "And it gets worse, boss."

"How worse, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked in his 'don't mess with me' voice.

"The neighbor says that the whole town knows that Stuart beat on his kid, has been since the girl was six." I dropped the bomb, and Gibbs' hands tightened on the steering wheel. Silence filled the cab.

"She had the means to do it, and she's got motive." Ziva said finally, then quickly filled me in about her conversation with the man running the shooting range, telling me that Rayne apparently was a sharp shot, explaining the BB gun.

"We're bringing her in. Now." Gibbs said, suddenly turning the car around on the empty road and heading back to the motoryard. "Call McGee and let him know, will you?" His voice was tense. If anyone hated cases like this, it was Gibbs. He seemed to sympathize with the person who'd been screwed over more than anyone else. Ziva immediately flipped open her phone, calling McGee. "Hey, DiNozzo," Gibbs said, gaining back my attention.

"Yeah, boss?" I asked, drumming my fingers on the car door.

"What kind of abuse was it?" He asked, the worse question in the world when it came to a case.

"Mrs. Marshall, the neighbor," I clarified as Ziva hung up, "said there's speculation that there was more abuse than just physical, but that no one could arrest Private Grean because Rayne hasn't told anyone about it, not ever. This whole town has watched her grow up like this." I heard anger edge over my words as I spoke, looking directly in front of me as we pulled up at the crime scene. Gibbs paused a moment, clearly soaking up all the nasty details I'd just told him before getting out of the car. I got out too, but pulled up short. Mrs. Marshall was waving cheerfully at me from her driveway, just getting into her car.

"Back again, Agent DiNozzo? Back to see the game?" She called, and I shared a quick look with Gibbs.

"What game?" I asked, and Mrs. Marshall laughed, whacking the still hot pavement with her cane with enough force to decapitate the nearest dandelion.

"Why, the hockey game of course! The whole town's there. Rayne plays with our team, and bless her little heart, she just flies on those skates, yes sir." She sighed, then called goodbye, getting into her car and driving away.

"Change of course, we're going to the game," Gibbs decided instantly, and we piled back into the car, following Mrs. Marshall. "Call McGee, tell him to meet us there, and to bring a warrant."


	3. Chapter 3

_Gibbs_

Standing in front of a card table that was serving as the ticket booth, I bought four tickets from a girl who was babysitting kids at the same time. This town was as local as you could get, but the ice skating rink had to be their pride and joy. It was the only building in town that looked completely new. Everyone was milling around out front, but once and awhile, a family would duck into the rink. "Hey, boss," McGee appeared, followed by Ziva and Tony. He waved the folded warrant in the air before tucking it back into his jacket. "Abby wanted me to tell you that the bullets found at the crime scene are .22 caliber, old school, probably from an old Hornet rifle. In this town, I guess it's not that surprising." McGee said, looking around us. "Why are we here again?" He asked, looking confused.

"We're seeing a game, McGee," I informed him, extending the three extra tickets towards the members of my team.

"_Why?"_ I heard Tony ask McGee in what was supposed to be in a voice too low for me to hear as we entered the rink, heading up into the stands.

"One of the best ways to judge a persons character is to see how they play sports, Tony. Rayne plays for the home team." Ziva supplied for me, then fell silent as she sat, watching the zamboni resurface the ice. Luckily, we didn't have long to wait. Unfortunately, the narrator for the game was more annoying than all of my ex-wives put together.

"Hello, hellooooooo, Dumfries! Are ya'll ready to see some action _tonight?" _He yelled, and the crowd went nuts. This was apparently the only entertainment in the whole town. "Our challenger tonight comes from just down the road…._GARRISONVILLE!"_ he roared, and half of the stands erupted, while the other half booed fiercely. "The ladies from Garrisonville tonight are…..Miranda, Alexis, Jane, Rosaharn, Jill _and….._ALLISON THE CRUSHER!" He named them one by one, and my irritation went up a notch as each girl swooped onto the ice in her own 'dramatic' entrance. "As you all may recall, Allison is affectionately called 'The Crusher' because she'll _crush_ you into the glass!"

"Americans find this entertaining?" Ziva asked, mystified, and Tony snorted with glee.

"And, playing for the home team tonight…Sadie, Anna, Ruthie, Mary, Laura _and…._the one, the only, our favorite gal…Ms. Cool, Calm and Collected…_RAYNE GREAN!" _The announcer yelled, and the crowd went nuts. My eyes instantly focused on the girl as she swept out of their penalty box, moving over the ice with grace, minus her left leg and thigh, which seemed to lag behind a little. "As we all know, Ms. Cool, Calm and Collected is referred to as such because no matter _what_ goes down on the ice, Rayne is _impossible to provoke!_ Now, don't get me wrong, she rolls with the punches, and she will **take you down, **but nothing, and I mean, _nothing_ can get this gal mad, ladies and gents." The man rambled on, but I caught Ziva's eye, interested. Not violent, even though she'd grown up with it? Interesting…

The game started fairly slowly and carefully, almost downright polite. But then, ten minutes in, the girls exploded. One elbowed another one in the face, and, in retaliation, the other team converged on the girl in a flailing ball of hockey sticks and punches. Two minutes later, a girl was fouled for high-sticking, hitting Rayne in the temple, knocking off her helmet and leaving a large gash. When the girl got back in play, Rayne swiped her right off her feet with her stick, getting punched in the back in retaliation. The game, to the fans' delight, got steadily dirtier. Allison 'The Crusher' slammed a girl into the sidelines so hard, the glass cracked slightly. One girl grabbed another by the front of her jersey and decked her right in the face. It was a full out brawl.

"Americans find this entertaining." Ziva repeated half and hour into the game, looking disgusted.

"Come on, Ziva, don't you like a good fight?" Tony asked, wincing when a huge, barrel-chested man behind him bellowed his support when the home team scored.

"_Ice shower, ice shower, ice shower!" _ The home crowd started to chant, and the other booed and hissed.

"Do I hear a call for an _ice shower?" _The announcer picked up on the shouting, and the crowd roared in appreciation. "I don't know ladies and gents, you can't get much out of Ms. Cool, Calm and Collected…" he teased, baiting them, as Rayne swept up to the puck, looking at her team for some sort of conformation. They all nodded, and launched an attack on the opposite team. It left the whole way clear, and Rayne pounded down it, gaining incredible speed. "Here it comes, the goalie has _no _chance…ICE SHOWER!" The announcer shouted with the crowd. About twenty yards away from the goal, Rayne suddenly braked hard, turning her feet almost sideways, sending up a huge spray of ice crystals, blinding the goalie. In a flash, she'd sent the puck whizzing in for another goal.

"Ingenuity." Ziva noted quietly, watching the sport with a bit more interest. As the game continued, I watched Rayne's face closely. While her teammates showed some emotion (anger, pain, ferocity), her face was a mask. It was eerie. I'd expected even the smallest of signs that she enjoyed being in control of hurting others, it was a trend with abuse victims. She was showing no such signs, which was very odd. Then, it happened. Allison 'The Crusher' gathered her team, strategizing and looking frequently at Rayne, who didn't notice, too busy ducking out of the onsite doctor's grasp as he tried to look at the cut across her temple. When the game resumed, Allison skated over to Rayne at once, leaned over, and brought her stick down across her left thigh as hard as she could, splintering the wood. The reaction was immediate. Rayne _screamed_ and fell instantly, bottoming out when the girl tripped her with her stick.

"How's the leg, Rayne?" Allison yelled. "Did Daddy give you a boo-boo?" As she spoke, Rayne's face drained of all color, and her eyes flashed. She tried to get up, but immediately stopped, face twisting in pain.

"Hey, _Hey! _Un-sportsman like conduct on the ice!" The announcer yelled, forgetting that he was supposed to remain objective. Even though Rayne's team converged around her, we were so high up in the stands that we could easily see her lean back against the barrier; face twisted in pain, chest heaving, and hands on her leg. "Now, ladies and gents, we've seen our fair share of broken bones, blood, lost teeth, bruises, fractures and sprains, so don't get too worried. You've gotta be tough to play this sport." The announcer diverted the crowds attention as the doctor swept out onto the ice. Rayne forced herself to her feet, leaving a blood stain behind. As soon as I saw it, I stood up. The hit she'd received shouldn't have bled that much, if at all. The other player must have known that she was hurt there. She had been letting that leg lag a little, perhaps to ease strain on it from an injury?

"Come on," I said, making my way down and out of the stands as the doctor supported Rayne, helping her skate to the locker rooms, leaving a small blood trail as they went. The game started back up again behind us as I lead my team around the long way, ignoring the 'team members only' sign on the door to the locker rooms and silently opening it. Voice echoed from around the corner.

"Seriously, I'm fine, Vinny, it's just a scratch." Rayne was saying, her voice tight, clearly full of pain.

"Bullshit, Rayne, that's not even one scratch. Those are _lashes._" The doctor said hotly, and then there was a quiet hiss of pain, probably from Rayne when he touched it. I saw Tony and McGee exchange looks as my stomach tightened. My gut _knew _that those lashes were her father's last abuse on her. "How the hell did you get these?" The doctor demanded.

"Accident in the shop." Rayne said firmly, then gasped as the doctor continued to tend to it. I continued to inch around the corner until I saw him wrapping her thigh with gauze. Rayne was sitting on a bench, the doctor crouched in front of her. Her athletic shorts had a dark stain on the front, and blood was dripping down her leg. Anger exploded inside me- no one should have to take that.

"That's bullshit, Rayne," The doctor said impatiently, wrapping another layer of gauze as red lines started to soak through the bandage. "What in the shop could make marks like this, huh? How about the black eye and the cut lip last week, the dislocated hip, huh? The sprained shoulder last month?"

"Vinny, just let it go, ok? Please? Just drop it." She pleaded, voice full of sadness, and he sighed, sitting back on his heels.

"You'll have to go to the hospital, those need stitches. They should've been stitched up when you first got them." He said, sounding frustrated.

"You know I can't go to the hospital, Vinny. Can't I just bind them really tightly?" Rayne asked, a slight edge of desperation edging over her words.

"It's a bandage, not a tourniquet." I said, coming fully around the corner, the team following. Rayne's expression dropped fast, and the doctor quickly stood up.

"Can I help you, Agent Gibbs?" She asked, starting to take the pads off of her arms, removing her gloves. Bruises were already starting to rise on her arms from the game, but these bruises were a lot darker and heavier than they should have been; her tan had hidden most of the damage when we first met her. If I hadn't been looking for it, I wouldn't' have noticed them.

"I have a warrant here to bring you in for questioning." I said as she took off her helmet, letting one slightly messy braid fall out of a coil on top of her head and hang down her back a few strands here and there falling out of the plait. Blood from the gash to her temple had clotted in a sticky trail down one side of her face. "We have a doctor who can stitch up your leg for you, free of charge." I added, and the doctor's face lit up. He was aware of probably every injury Rayne had received. He might know more than the neighbor.

"I'd like to see the warrant." She said in a hard voice, ignoring the part about getting her leg taken care of, extending her hand for it. McGee fished it out of his jacket and handed it to her. She scowled as she read further, and then her expression exchanged to complete shock. "A subpoena for my medical records? What for?" She asked, looking up, and I looked to McGee, filling with pride. I hadn't asked him to do that, but he'd done it all on his own.

"It's part of our investigation." McGee said, and I could have beamed at him.

"That's good work, McGee." I said, and she glared at me.

"Can I at least get out of the rest of these pads and my skates?" She asked, accepting defeat, even though I could tell it made her worried that we were getting her medical records.

"Of course," I said lazily, and jerked my head at the doctor, telling him to leave. He did so immediately, and after catching my gaze, Ziva went after him for questioning. Rayne undid her shoulder pads and all of the pads left on her legs, then, wincing, bent over to untie her skates. After stacking it all in a neat pile by her bag, she pulled out a pair of flip flops and slid them on, slowly standing up, jaw clenched in an obvious effort not to show pain. "I hope you're not in a hurry," she said frostily, limping for the door. She left, not even checking to see if we were following and nearly ran into Ziva, who was coming back in. Her face was unreadable, which meant she was hiding something—the doctor must have had bad news. Tony and McGee walked on either side of the girl, and once or twice I saw them twitch, as if they were fighting down the urge to help her along. She certainly couldn't hide all of her pain now; her face was slightly paler, and her pace much slower.

Tony held the car door open for her, and she slowly got in, face twisting as she had to contract her thigh. The whole car ride back to NCIS she was silent, looking out the window with an unreadable look on her face.


	4. Chapter 4

_Rayne_

One of the agents walked me down to interrogation, and then left. Then I sat there. And sat there. _And sat there. _It felt like I'd been in there for an hour, refusing to do anything but sit up straight and look directly ahead (I knew they could see me) before Gibbs himself walked in, making me instantly stiffen in dislike. He placed two files on the table between us before sitting down, looking at me the whole time. Once seated, he just stared at me. I knew this game well. My father used to play it with me all the time. As soon as he saw a weakness, he beat the shit out of me because of it. Even though I hated Gibbs, and the very idea of being in a small room with a marine scared me, I looked right back into his eyes, forcing down emotion until I was the selfless robot I usually was. Finally, Gibbs looked down, opening the first file and flipping over the first photograph. It wasn't at all what I expected. It was a picture of someone's palm, and I suddenly realized that it was my father's. His palm had one angry red line down it from where he'd been beating on my thigh with a belt two days ago. "Do you know how your father sustained this injury?" Gibbs asked quietly, eyes on my face.

"Probably in the shop, sir," I said dispassionately, and Gibbs pushed the picture towards me, raising his voice.

"We have the surveillance tapes from your father's store. He hasn't worked for the past two months, nor has he been in there at any other time but to go to his office. You're lying." He'd caught me _already. _ Crap.

"Then he must have cut himself out in the junkyard. I don't know." I thought up another lie quickly; I'd gotten good at it after all these years. Gibbs fixed me with an eagle eye stare before flipping over the next photo on the stack. It was a picture of my father's head from the brows up. There was one perfect hole in the middle of his forehead from a gunshot.

"Only a skilled marksman could have made this shot. The recoil on a gun is hard to control." Gibbs said clearly, pushing this photo towards me too. I didn't know what he was hoping to accomplish—guilt, maybe? Well, he wasn't going to get it. I was glad he was dead. I said nothing, only looked back up at him, face expressionless. We had another mini stare down before he opened the second file, running a finger down the first page as if checking a list. "According to your medical records, you've broken your clavicle three times, your nose four times; you've broken five ribs, broken seven fingers as well as your radius. You've dislocated your shoulder ten times, thrown out your knee, and broken your jaw." Gibbs read off, voice getting harder by the second, and I felt myself freeze, remembering each broken bone, each bruise, each time I'd cleaned up blood.

"I play a dangerous sport, Agent Gibbs. As you've already seen, it's not uncommon to get hurt." I forced myself to say, hoping that he'd just let it go. Unfortunately, my comment only seemed to make him angry.

"What I saw today was an old injury reopening. You've only been playing hockey for four years. These injuries go back ten years, even longer than that. You're lying again." He snarled.

"I don't understand how this pertains to your investigation." I said through gritted teeth, considering asking for an attorney. I could protect myself, but it would ease some of the tension if someone else was here. Gibbs leaned even closer, looking as if he was restraining himself, which made me even more afraid.

"Your father has been beating you since you were six years old. According to your local shooting range, you are a skilled marksman. You had the motive and means to kill your father." He said, and I couldn't help myself, I laughed bitterly, shoving the photos back at him.

"If I was that brave, I'd have done it years ago. I didn't kill my father." I said coolly, knowing that he had nothing on me.

"Was it self defense, Rayne? Was he beating you to a point where you had to strike back?" Gibbs asked, and for some reason, I was suddenly filling with anger, working hard to hold it back, my façade starting to slip. This was none of his business; he was just as cocky and messed up as all the other marines. He didn't care and he never would.

"Show me the forensic evidence. Show me the gun I used to kill him, and my fingerprints on it. Show me the blood splatter you found on my clothes. Prove it." I said harshly, and Gibbs stood up, putting me on edge, especially when he leaned closer than ever before, making my insides explode in fear.

"Why do you protect your father, Rayne? What else has he done to you that would make you cover for him?" He asked very quietly. His closeness made me totally lose it.

"Listen, you son-of-a-bitch, my father was a drunk. He was a loser; he did nothing with his life. The only reason our shop is still open is because of my mother's life insurance policy. I'm glad the bastard is dead, but _I didn't kill him!"_ I yelled, standing up so fast my chair fell back with a _bang._

"Sit down," Gibbs said quietly, not at all fazed, as far as I could tell.

"No. Either charge me with something or let me go. You have no proof that I did this." I snarled, trying very hard not to storm out of here.

"_Sit. Down._" Gibbs ordered, rising up to his full height. As he did so, he shoved the table towards me, hitting my thigh. Before I could stop it, a gasp of pain escaped, and I grabbed my thigh reflexively, eyes squeezing shut as my nerves stung and burned, even though the pain was nowhere near as bad as when my father had actually been beating me. He'd had his fist in my hair, keeping me still as he brought down his belt over and over again. "Come. Our doctor will give you the stitches you need, then you can leave." Gibbs voice was surprisingly composed when he spoke again, and I straightened, trying to maintain some dignity. He walked to the door and pulled it open for me, waiting. After a second, I limped carefully out, trying to keep my face from twisting. I could feel my thigh starting to bleed again, and soon it'd streak down my leg and everyone would see it—I was still wearing my lightweights that went under all my hockey pads. Once in the hall, I saw another door at the end open, and all of Gibbs' agents came out, making me mad again. Of course they'd all watch. "DiNozzo—take Ms. Grean to autopsy." Gibbs ordered, and one of the guys came forward, the other agents walking by, gawking like idiots. Gibbs turned away and the others followed him until it was just 'DiNozzo' and I in the hallway.

"Elevator's this way," he said, starting off down the hall. I limped after him, trying to mask the fact that I was breathing in pants; my thigh _really_ hurt. One awkward elevator ride later, we emerged in a very industrial looking area. From the left, I heard loud techno music. To the right, it was silent. DiNozzo turned right, and walked through a pair of automatic doors. "Hey, Duck," he greeted someone as I limped through the doors, trying as hard as I could not to show weakness.

"Hello, Anthony," a calm, British voice responded. As I walked further into the cold autopsy room, I saw two new people. I immediately identified the British man as the shorter portly one, who even had on a _bowtie. _The other looked like his little flunky, sitting at a computer a few feet away, watching the whole exchange through round glasses. "This must be Madam Rayne," The British guy said calmly, coming over and shaking my hand as if we were discussing business. "I am Doctor Mallard, but please, call me Ducky. This is Mr. Palmer, my assistant. I see you have a hurt leg." His friendliness shocked me; I thought all of Gibbs' staff were as, well, mean as him. He certainly wasn't what I was expecting. "Right this way, let's take a look." He escorted me over to, regrettably, one of the autopsy tables. With a wince, I sat on it, then gritted my teeth as I swung my legs over. "Oh, dear," the Doctor said, looking down. I'd started bleeding again, and I'd left a few drops on the floor. "No matter, let's take a look see," He continued, and I rolled back my shorts, then the under-armor beneath it. Without the pressure of the tight material, red began to blossom over the white bandage. "Gauze, Mr. Palmer." The Doctor said, completely at ease.

"Here, Doctor. Oh my," the assistant said in surprise as he came over, getting a look at my leg as Doctor Mallard pulled away the bandage. Under the bright autopsy lights, my thigh looked hideously ugly. My tan skin was marred by criss-crossing lashes, all of them slowly becoming obscure as they bled.

"How did you sustain this injury?" The Doctor asked curiously, peering through his glasses as he started to clean the wound, ignoring my winces.

"I cut it in the shop." I said, continuing the lie, then winced again as he applied slight pressure.

"Interesting. The wound isn't completely clean." He said, turning over the gauze he'd been using. Among the blood were little brown specks, and I felt myself pale as I realized what they were. It was little pieces of leather from my dad's belt. "You know, I have a Morgan 4/4 which I restored myself." He said, and even though I knew that he was just doing this to start conversation so he could report back to Gibbs, I was intrigued.

"Series one or two?" I asked, not looking at 'Ducky's' face.

"Why, one, of course." He said. "I'll be stitching up your leg shortly, and I'll need to numb the area now." He added, looking at his assistant. 'Mr. Palmer' started, then quickly turned and left to get the supplies the Doctor needed.

"What year?" I asked, finally daring to look at him.

"1936." He replied, taking the supplies from his assistant and starting to measure out a tiny syringe full of numbing solution. To my surprise, he seemed totally comfortable. Usually, people who were snooping for information had this tenseness to them that always would give them away.

"How did you find a Coventry Climax engine that old?" I asked as he started to poke among the largest lashes, ignoring the feeling of my skin tingling and then numbing. It was a relief not to feel the lashes anyway.

"Lots of hunting, I'll tell you that." He chuckled, apparently satisfied that my thigh was numb. He turned to the pile of supplies and selected his needle and thread. "Where did you learn to work on cars like you do?" He asked as he started to stitch up the heaviest lash first, his assistant hovering behind him.

"My dad." I said, my voice hard. He was starting his prying. "And before you can ask, I don't thank him for it. I'm studying law, not automobile repair."

"I see," he said slowly, not at all fazed, watching his stitch work intently. "Where will you be studying law then, Ms. Rayne?" He asked.

"I haven't decided yet. It depends on how many scholarship forms I can afford to fill out first." I said, and he chuckled softly.

"I remember a time in my life where I had so much debt from student loans that I had to lifeguard on the side. I'm sure Mr. Palmer still has lots of debt to pay, don't you?" He asked his assistant, who nodded vigorously. I almost cracked a smile. _Almost. _"Well, I'm sure you have good enough grades to get some grant money awarded to you. And I believe I am…done." He carefully cut his thread, admiring his handiwork. In my opinion, my thigh looked like Frankenstein, but it wasn't bleeding and it didn't hurt, so I wasn't about to complain, especially because he'd done it for free. "Now, no strenuous activity. You should really be on crutches." He ordered as I carefully swung my legs off the table and slowly put weight on my bad leg, rolling down my under-armor and then shorts over the bandages.

"Thank you, Doctor." I said, and he waved a hand dismissively at me.

"It's Ducky, Ms. Rayne, Ducky. And you are certainly welcome. I still advise you to take these crutches." He said, gesturing to some that had magically appeared by the assistants' computer.

"No thank you." I said, giving him a quick smile. Even if he'd gone prying into my life, he was a really friendly and nice person.

"Then I will escort you back upstairs. How will you be getting home?" He asked, gently leading me towards the doors. I balked for just a second at his touch on my skin where I wasn't numbed before moving forward away from it. I didn't like people touching me.

"Bus, I suppose. Unless Agent Gibbs takes me back or tries to question me again." I said, my voice getting hard once more. The Doctor made conversation about his Morgan, walking at a slower pace to keep up with me as we made our way back upstairs.

"All stitched up and ready to leave," He announced our arrival into a rectangular area marked by four desks and a large TV screen. Sitting at the desks were the agents I'd come to dislike. One of the men was typing away furiously at his computer, the other on the phone. The woman was sifting through my mother's old address book, making my breath hitch for a second. I hadn't even seen the thing in years, my father had stashed it somewhere where he wouldn't have to be reminded of her. Gibbs himself was sitting at his desk, eyes sweeping over his agents. He stood as the Doctor walked and I limped into their territory.

"I thought you were giving her crutches." He said, watching me come to a careful stop. My spine instantly tightened as he looked me over and I looked past all of them, out the large windows that showed the world outside.

"Ms. Rayne insists that she will be fine without them." He said for me, shooting me a sidelong glance. The agents stopped working at their desks and looked up to watch us.

"I'm fine," I said, voice tight, as Gibbs looked to me for conformation.

"Then Ziva will take you home." He said, gesturing to the woman, who automatically stood up, coming over.

"At your entrance," she said, and I blinked, confused.

"She means leave," DiNozzo said, hanging up his phone.

"At your leave," she corrected herself, shooting him and irritated look. Resisting the urge to glare at Gibbs one last time, I limped away, the woman easily keeping pace beside me. The ride home was silent. All I did was thank her for taking me home before gladly hiding back among the towering stacks of cars, glad to be free of NCIS.


	5. Chapter 5

_McGee_

"Got anything on that insurance policy, yet?" Gibbs asked me after watching Rayne disappear, expression unfathomable.

"Uh, yes, boss. As the neighbor said, it was worth five hundred thousand dollars. About two thousand of that has been used to keep the Grean shop open. The rest of it was withdrawn from the bank four years ago." I said, trying not to get nervous (as usual) as Gibbs leaned over my shoulder, looking at the figures intensely. There was no other money trail. The case was looking dead- we had no weapon, little forensic evidence, and the only suspect proved that she didn't do it already.

"Look into any friends of Private Grean's. Find _something._ DiNozzo, go down to autopsy and make sure Palmer took Rayne's blood samples to Abby." Gibbs ordered, and then turned to Ducky, who was still standing there, evidently to give his psychological analysis. "What do you have for me, Duck?" He asked, and Ducky sighed, obviously being drawn into the case like everyone else.

"Ms. Rayne is a different subject to be sure. She's very guarded, unwilling to show pain our admit weakness. She reacted normally to human contact in a medical sense, but in a more social sense she rejected it most adamantly." He said, watching Gibbs closely.

"Is that common with abuse victims?" Gibbs asked after a second of processing.

"Indeed. The proof is there in her injuries and mental state. All you need is proof that the father did it, and I think I can help you there. While cleaning the wound, I discovered small bits of leather in the lashes. If you find a belt in the Private's possessions, Abby could test it to see if there was blood on it, and if the leather was the same. That would make our accusations unquestionable." He said, and I glared at my computer screen. Private Grean was a sick, sick man.

"DiNozzo's probably on it. Anything else, Duck?" Gibbs asked, tone clipped, which let me know that the abuse made him just as angry. His tone implied that he was expecting more damage.

"If you are wondering about other abuse, I can't be sure. The negative reaction to human contact could come from sexual abuse, but without other warning signs, I cannot be positive. However, verbal abuse is certain. I believe that is the foundation to her fear of Marines." Ducky said sadly, and Gibbs blinked, actually looking surprised.

"Fear? Of Marines?" He repeated, eyebrows raising.

"I believe so. Her behavior around Anthony was uncomfortable, but nowhere near as fearful as it is around you. I'm sure that if I review the interrogation tape I can prove my theory." Ducky said, looking at Gibbs.

"She's afraid of Marines because of her father?" I asked stupidly, then quickly looked back down, going back to my search when Gibbs glared at me.

"Yes, Timothy, I'm afraid so. A rather odd phobia, isn't it?" Ducky said, then turned and left. Just as he was leaving, DiNozzo breezed in.

"Took the leather and blood samples to Abby, boss; she's comparing it to Private Grean's possessions." His tone was unusually brisk, which was another cue as to how angry this case made everyone.

"There is something I don't understand." Ziva said, getting up from her desk, pacing agitatedly. Why didn't she leave town? Why did she stay with her father?"

"Fear. She wouldn't be able to get far, and if she's been abused her whole life, her father might do worse if he caught her." Tony said instantly, sitting on the edge of his desk and rubbing his forehead.

"She might still love him, somehow." I heard myself say, and both Ziva and Tony turned to look at me in surprise and a bit of anger. "Well, maybe not, but maybe she feels like she owes him something! Abuse victims always blame themselves, not the aggressor." I tacked on hastily, frustrated that I wasn't finding anything in Stuart Grean's past.

"Father-Daughter connection, McGee?" Gibbs asked, but not in his usual, dangerous voice.

"Possibly, Boss." I muttered, going back to the computer, trying to think of anything else I could search for in his past. I'd already spent the past two hours going through his high school friends.

"Maybe she stayed so that she could kill him," Ziva suggested. "She waited until just the right moment."

"Ziva, we don't have any evidence against her," Tony said slowly, over exaggerating.

"That's because we have no murder weapon!" Ziva shot back. "The guns from the shooting range that were available for lease all came back clean! The gun has to be out there somewhere!"

"What, you think she just borrowed one from a friend? 'Hey, Stacy, can I borrow your revolver? The .22 caliber one? Thanks!'" DiNozzo mocked in a high, girly voice, and Ziva sent him a dangerous look.

"If she did kill him, do you think it was self defense?" I asked loudly, interrupting their stare down. "The lashes on her leg were fresh, barely closed, maybe given to her 48 to 72 hours ago."

"Then why wouldn't she just come out and say it? Why hide the truth?" Ziva asked, exasperated. Before I could answer, my computer _dinged. _I'd gotten a hit off of disciplinary referral records in the time period that Stuart Grean had been a Marine, just to check over all of the terrible things he'd done in the core. On three separate accounts, he'd been punished with _the same man._

"Uh, Boss?" I asked, and he instantly came over. "Look, on three separate occasions, these two men where punished together." I pointed out the man's name on each file.

"Plasma, McGee," Gibbs ordered, and I did what he asked, Tony and Ziva going to stand with Gibbs to get a better look.

"Dean Koziol, discharged from the Marine Core for six accounts of embezzlement. Apparently, he and Private Grean stole money from recruitment offices for booze." I brought up Private Koziol's file without having to be asked. "Dean Koziol, thirty two years old, has been in and out of jail for stealing and public drunkenness for the past two years. He's declared bankruptcy seven times. He's a con-artist, a scam." I said in disbelief, opening his financial records. He'd tried ripping people off ever since he left the core. Sometimes it worked, he'd gone from ridiculously wealthy to dirt poor on and off for a few years. Now it showed that he was in desperate need of money.

"He needed money. His old friend had some. Let's go, address, McGee." Gibbs ordered, turning sharply away from the plasma and grabbing his badge and gun. I quickly scribbled it down on a piece of paper, trying not to look at the sneering photo of Dean Koziol.

"Got it," I said, getting up and having to jog to catch up with everyone at the elevator. The ride there was short and tense, even though I had my face in my cell phone, doing more background research on Koziol. I'd randomly list facts out loud, like what his car looked like, past girlfriends, his level of commitment in the marine core, etc. We pulled up and immediately got out. The house in front of us was ramshackle, with shingles falling off, peeling paint, and cracked windows. One intense search of the house later, we found it empty. It was full of empty bottles of booze and trash, but it was clear that two people had been living there.

"Damn it," Gibbs growled, slamming the door behind us as we left, walking down his rough and weedy driveway. "He had an accomplice and now he's gone."

"Wait!" Tony yelled, throwing out an arm to stop Ziva, then quickly squatted, looking intently at the ground. On closer inspection, I saw that he was looking at tire treads. "What kind of car did he have again?" Tony asked, fishing out a camera to take a picture.

"A pickup truck, brown, from the seventies." I said instantly.

"Well, whatever car this was, it left in a hurry." Tony said, standing up and beating dust out of his pants.

* * *

_Gibbs_

On the way to Dumfries, I let Ziva drive so that I could try not to think as the landscape around whizzed by. I couldn't help but wonder what my relationship with Kelly would have been like if only Shannon died in the car accident. Would I have been just as terrible as Private Grean? At this point, Rayne was about the same age as Kelly would be, and I hated that she reminded me of my daughter. She was _someone's _daughter, not mine. I didn't have to care about her, didn't have to suddenly act like her father. It wasn't my place, even though I _wanted_ it to be my place. If Private Grean was still alive, I would've loved to beat him to mush. It was his job to care for his daughter, and instead he might have done more than I would ever know. The fact that I probably would never know the whole story frustrated me, but also horrified me. What would Rayne do with her life now that she was finally free?

"We're here, Boss," McGee said quietly before quickly getting out of the car, jerking me out of the daydream. The tall, high gate to the Grean family business was standing wide open, the place deserted.

"Tire treads," Ziva noted, pointing to the ground. It was hard to tell without a computer, but they looked damn close to the ones at Koziol's house.

"Excuse me!" A frail old voice called, making us all turn. The neighbor, Mrs. Marshall, was tottering across the road, cane in hand. "Tony, Tony, Tony," she sighed, accidentally whacking DiNozzo's shin with her cane, making his smile forced.

"Mrs. Marshall, do you know where Rayne is?" Ziva spoke up before the old woman could offer us cookies and lemonade.

"Why, no! I came over here to ask ya'll. I haven't seen her in awhile, just when she got dropped off earlier. Limpin' real bad, poor thing." She said, plunking her cane down firmly and peering up at us through narrowed eyes.

"Did you see anything unusual?" Tony asked quickly, shooting me a glance.

"As a matter of fact, I did, now that I think about it. About an hour after she came home, a truck pulled up. Barely ten minutes later it was off again, in a rush to be sure, yes, sir." She said, and I got a nasty feeling in my gut…

"What color was the truck?" Ziva asked sharply.

"At first I thought it was a customa', thing was brown and all banged up n' such. Real old," She said, looking inbetween the four of us, starting to realize that something was wrong. "Ain't nothin' goin' on now, is there? Rayne in some sort a trouble?"

"No, ma'am. Go back to your home and stay there." Ziva ordered, already turning and entering the property. I barely felt my feet move until I was beside her, my eyes sweeping the junkyard, looking for any signs of life.

"Do you think she skipped town with Koziol? Hired him to kill her dad?" Tony puffed, catching up to us.

"No, there wasn't any money in Koziol's bank account." McGee disagreed, then fell silent as I gave them all a look, pulling my gun and approaching the shop carefully. The lights were still on, and a radio was playing inside. I signaled Ziva to go in first, and she did, her dark eyes furious. She checked the office as Tony, McGee and I swept around the shop. The place was empty. Only one car was in the shop, the hood open. The radio was balancing on the battery. A few feet away, there was a discarded wrench and nothing more.

"Clear," Ziva announced, coming back into the room.

"Clear," Tony agreed dully, holstering his gun with a sigh. Looking past him, I noticed it. The engine in the open hood of the car had blood on it. Shoving my gun back in its holster, I brushed past Tony to get a closer look. The blood hadn't even started to coagulate yet.

"There's blood on this engine, and it's fresh." I said quietly, turning back around and looking over the shop, trying to suppress the roaring feeling in my gut. McGee knelt by the wrench, turning it over with a glove.

"There's blood on this too, Boss," He noted, standing up hastily and scanning the room as I was. At first, it just appeared as if the place was just messy. But when we first started the case, the place was spotless, impeccable. Now parts were missing from the walls, discarded in weird places on the ground. A toolbox was lying on its side on the floor, tools spilled out.

"There was a fight." Tony said angrily, crossing to the register and pulling it open. "All of their money is gone."

"Let's get this back to Abby. DiNozzo, get a bolo out on Koziol's truck." I said, trying not to race out and assume the worst.


	6. Chapter 6

_Abby_

"It's about time you got here." I said, pouting as Gibbs swept in. DiNozzo had given me blood and leather samples, and then the whole team just disappeared. Gibbs looked strained, it must be a difficult case they were doing. The evidence I'd processed already pointed to a really nasty case, and it was those kinds of cases that Gibbs got involved in. I was worried for him. Gibbs dropped another blood sample and a wrench on my table, along with a Caf-Pow!.

"Sorry, Abs." Gibbs said in a much quieter voice than usual, which put me on high alert. Tony, Ziva and McGee had all sounded a lot more stressed over this case than usual over the phone, but when it even affected Gibbs, something was wrong.

"What's wrong?" I asked instantly, but he just shook his head, pushing the Caf-Pow! at me. "Gibbs," I started, but he just gestured to my computers, telling me to get a move on. After a mini- stare down, I turned to the computers. "Well," I huffed, trying to suppress my curiosity, "There was nothing special about Rayne Grean's blood, nothing at all. All we got from it was her DNA and her blood type, O positive. On the other hand…you were right about the little pieces of leather you got off of the lashes on her thigh. They match _this _belt." I turned back to my table and lifted it in the evidence bag for Gibbs to inspect. He took it, tipping the bag towards the light, squinting so that he could see the cracks forming. "It's _really _hard to tell, but the edges of the belt are fraying- the leather is old and really crappy. In those little frayed ends I found her blood." I looked at Gibbs intently, waiting for him to tell me why I found a girl's blood on her Dad's belt and why her Dad hit her, but Gibbs did nothing but look back at me. "_Well?" _I cried finally, and Gibbs sighed.

"Her Dad's been beating her since she was six. Everyone we talked to in her home town knew it, but they couldn't prove it because she won't talk about it. Now we have forensic evidence to prove it." Gibbs said, his eyes fierce, but voice neutral.

"But he's already dead! That doesn't matter…unless she killed him." I put together, and looked at Gibbs in horror. "But, Gibbs, if she did it, it was self defense, right? I mean—"

"Abs." Gibbs said, silencing me. "This was just part of our investigation. We have no proof that she killed him. Right now we are looking at the Private's friend, but neither he, nor the girl are anywhere to be found." His voice started out reassuring, but got hard as he continued, and my eyes widened. "I need you to test to see if this blood," he held up the swab, "is Rayne's. Her blood might be on that wrench as well."

"Do you think—" I started, but Gibbs had already walked away.

* * *

_Gibbs_

"Did you put that bolo out?" I barked as I walked back into the squad room. I had a nasty feeling in my gut about what had happened to Rayne Grean, but I didn't want to believe it.

"Yes, Boss," Tony said quickly.

"I just got off the phone with the neighbor, she said Koziol's truck went south. We aren't assuming that that is the only direction they went, but it's been specified in the bolo." Ziva supplied before I could ask her what she'd been doing. I rounded on McGee.

"I called the local police station in Dumfries. They're patrolling the town, just in case." He said hastily. Soon after, the waiting began. I sent Tony and Ziva back to Koziol's house to search for the murder weapon or any more clues, and that gave them new leads to follow. McGee was going over any records he could get his hands on with a fine toothed comb, but it was slow, pointless work. Abby was processing evidence, and the bolo was out. All we could do was wait. The sun slowly started to set. McGee went out to get coffee for all of us. I had Tony extend the bolo to cover a wider area, just in case they were traveling. Finally, around ten at night, Abby called me down.

"You got something, Abs?" I asked as I re-entered her lab, all of my nerves on edge.

"I wouldn't have called you if I didn't." Abby said, bringing up a scale reading on her computer. "I analyzed the blood swab you gave me, and you were right, it does belong to Rayne Grean. For some reason, it was mixed with trace amounts of motor oil."

"We found it on an engine, the crime scene was at a auto repair shop." I explained testily. Abby hadn't found anything, just confirmed the suspicion in my gut that something was horribly wrong. "So, you've got nothing."

"Not so, Gibbs, not so." Abby said, turning to her table and lifting the wrench. "There were _three_ unique blood samples on this wrench." She spun back around to her computer and started typing. "First, the one on the very bottom, belonged to a Garrett Weber. No military background, but he was arrested for embezzlement and drug paraphernalia. The blood on top of his was from Dean Koziol." My mind flashed back to the evidence of two people living in Koziol's house. Garrett Weber had to be the accomplice.

"Somebody hit the two of them with this wrench?" I asked, examining it. I could picture the scene in my mind; the two of them going after Rayne and her using the wrench to defend herself.

"First Weber, and then Koziol." Abby affirmed.

"Whose blood was the third type?" I asked, my stomach sinking, and Abby's face fell.

"Whereas the first two blood types were just small trace amounts, the third type made up the vast majority of the blood. It belongs to Rayne Grean." Abby said sadly. As soon as she confirmed my fear, I turned and left, punching the buttons in the elevator to somehow make it go faster.

"Boss, we found a piece of junk mail in Koziol's house for a—" Tony started, but I cut him off.

"Garrett Weber. The accomplice." I growled, sitting at my desk, even though I wanted to pace, wanted to get in the car and hunt the two men down myself. For all I knew, Rayne Grean was dead.

"Problems, Boss?" Tony asked, clearly worried.

"Abby found three blood types on the wrench. The first two were Garrett Weber and Dean Koziol, and in small amounts. The third was Rayne Grean's—her blood is all over that wrench." I very nearly snarled. I knew that I was breaking rule ten; I knew that I was being ridiculously emotional, but I couldn't help but care about what happened to Rayne. There was definitely foul play involved, and the only way to close the case on Private Grean was to find her. "Did you find anything else from the house?" I asked, forcing myself to calm down.

"Actually, yes. An empty magazine for .22 caliber bullets. We sent it down to Abby for prints, but it's not like we don't know whose they are going to be." Ziva said, glaring at a wall as she said it.

"It belongs to the marine." Tony said confidently. "The shot that killed Private Grean was precise. That shot came from marine training."

"I don't care who it came from, DiNozzo. I care about finding Rayne Grean." I growled, and he shut up. Exactly two hours and fifteen seconds later, McGee's phone rang.

"Special Agent McGee. Uh huh. Yes, that's the vehicle. Thank you," He hung up quickly, standing up. "They found the truck off of interstate 95 by an abandoned farm house, Boss." Without a word I seized my gun and badge, the rest of the team following.

* * *

_Rayne_

_After I'd gotten out of interrogation and NCIS, I did the only thing that helped me relax: working on an old car. I had the radio going, sitting on the battery next to me as I took a wrench to a very old and rusty alternator, trying to open it to clean it out. Over the sound of the radio, I heard the door to the shop open even though there was a sign on it that said 'CLOSED'. "We're closed," I said, straining against the wrench as the bolt I was working on started to slowly turn. _

"_I'm not here for parts." A man spoke, his voice a sneer. Not at all in the mood today to deal with anymore crap, I turned, raising the wrench to my shoulder. Two men stood in the doorway. I didn't recognize either of them. "I'm here for you, Rayne." As soon as he called me by name, a nasty feeling started in my stomach, and I gripped the wrench tighter._

"_What the hell do you want then?" I asked, and he chuckled, moving into the shop, suddenly pulling a gun out of the pocket of his shorts, raising it even with my forehead. I could tell by the way he held it that he wasn't just some punk- he knew how to use a gun. _

"_I already told you. You're coming with us—Garrett!" He yelled at his friend, who had gone over to the cash register and opened it. He was stuffing the money into his pockets as fast as he could. "Damn it, Garrett, get your ass over here! We'll have plenty of money soon enough." 'Garrett' came over, leering at me unpleasantly. Both men **reeked** of alcohol, sending me on edge. _

"_I'm not going with you." I said firmly, meeting the eyes of the man with the gun as if he were my father. _

"_Me and my gun here say you are." He said, leaning back to look down the sight, lining up a shot right in the middle of my forehead. I took that opportunity to spring forward and smash my wrench into his friend's shoulder, who'd been looking in the other direction, back at the register. He howled in pain, dropping to the floor as I spun, my thigh screaming in pain, clipping the man with the gun in the ear. He didn't even react, he just grabbed the wrench with his free hand, pressing the muzzle of the gun directly to my forehead, glaring down at me. Ignoring his friend's groan as he got back up, he jerked the wrench out of my grasp, brushing the back of his hand over his ear to wipe away blood. As I took him in, trying to think and failing, I realized he was a marine. The way he looked at me, the way he carried himself and his weapon- he had to be a marine. If he'd been from NCIS, he would have declared his agent status…_

_The man brought down my wrench on my shoulder, then my back, and then everywhere he could reach, taking me down in seconds. Each time the end of the heavy wrench hit me, it cut the skin a little. It was pure luck that he didn't hit my thigh. When he was finally done beating me, I thought my jaw would never unclench from my effort not to scream, not to let him know that he'd hurt me. His hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me up, then shoved me towards the car I'd been working on, and my head bashed into the engine, splitting it open. I couldn't help it, I cried out in pain, the world swirling in front of me as I fell. None of my muscles were responding, I couldn't stand up, couldn't call out. "Nice one," said Garrett, nudging me roughly with his foot._

"_Stupid bitch, just as stubborn as her whore mother." The man with the gun growled, tossing the wrench to the floor. "Come on, I got rope in the truck," he continued, hoisting me onto his shoulder._

* * *

My eyes flicked open. I was slumped on cold, damp concrete, and it was dark. The air around me smelled musty, almost like hay. My body was screaming with pain and stiffness; my fingers almost numb; my head throbbed. Something had my wrists tied so tight it was cutting into my skin. Dried blood was caked on my face in a thick layer, and pulled at my skin when I turned my head. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. Above me and to the left was an open second story, full of hay. The door to the concrete 'room' I was in was half wood, half bars. Seconds later, I finally got it. I was in a clean horse stall in a barn god knows where. Two men had come into the shop—one of them had known my mother.

I was so exhausted; I could barely move, but I forced myself to sit up anyway, and then stand on shaky, painful legs. Seconds later, I heard a chair push back, and footsteps walk over. The man who'd had the gun appeared on the other side of the bars, his face breaking out into a sick smile. "Hello, Rayne. Have a nice nap, hmmm?" He asked, and I heard him unlocking the door. He stepped through, slipping a lock and key into his pocket as he came closer. "We're going to play a quick, easy game. Are you ready?"


	7. Chapter 7

_Rayne_

"Don't be afraid, Rayne. This is going to be very quick." The man promised as he forced me along, out of the stalls and into a sandy ring where horses would train. Sitting in the middle on a concrete platform were three stools. Garrett was on one of them, counting the money he stole from the register. I tried to jerk out of the man's grasp, but that only made the rope around my wrists cut deeper into my skin. He jerked me roughly back anyway.

"She's feisty." Garrett noted as the other man sat me down on one of the stools, quickly tying my feet to it so I couldn't leap off and run away.

"Fuck you," I gasped, and he chuckled as his friend sat down, taking his gun out of his pocket. My eyes flashed down to it. I'd spent enough time at the shooting range to know that it was a .22 caliber weapon- just like the bullet that had been in the lock of the office door. Just like the bullet in my father's head.

"Maybe later, Rayne. We have business to attend to first." The man said, spinning the chamber on the gun. "My name is Dean, and this is Garrett. We were pals with your dad, weren't we, Garrett?" He asked, and they both laughed together. Instantly I understood. They were the ones who killed my dad. Why were they going after _me_?

"He didn't have to die you know. You don't have to either. This is simple; your fat ass father didn't seem to understand that. You have money—that life insurance policy. We want that money. Tell us where it is." Garrett said, lounging back on his stool.

"What are you talking about—what _insurance policy?_" I asked angrily, lying on the spot. Garrett leaned forward and decked me across the face, right across the cheekbone, breaking the skin. Gasping, I spat out blood, sitting back up straight and looking at the two men through smarting eyes. My whole head was ringing. The satisfied looks on their faces made my pulse race.

"Let's try this again, you stupid bitch. Your whore mother had a life insurance policy worth five hundred grand. Where is the money?" Dean said easily, still spinning the chamber on the revolver.

"My mother wasn't a whore, and she didn't have an insurance—" Garrett cut me off when he stood up and kicked me right in the chest, toppling the stool and sending it and me sprawling into the dirt. Ribs on fire, I heard myself groan. Uncomfortable heat was spreading from the spot where he'd kicked me, and a lump was rising on the back of my head from where it'd hit the hard ground. Hands picked me and the stool up, placing it back on the concrete. "Fuck this, let's just kill her," Garrett growled, punctuating his words with a slap that left my face stinging.

"We _can't_, you idiot. Not yet. Without that money, we're fucked." Dean said, adding bullets into the chamber of his pistol and closing it.

"You two really are stupid, aren't you?" I croaked, spitting out more blood- I'd bit the inside of my cheek. "Even if there had been money, the bastard used it all for booze. Besides, NCIS is still investigating. They'll be cops on your ass the minute you shoot me, I'm a suspect."

"What the fuck is NCIS?" Garrett chuckled, but Dean, the one who reminded me of marines froze, looking at me closely. His eyes narrowed.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Well then, I guess we'll just have to speed things up, now won't we?" Dean said, face filling with hate. He knelt and untied me from the stool. As soon as I was free, I kicked him as hard as I could in the face, sliding off the stool and making a run for it. Hands grabbed my arms and threw me to the ground, and there was a click as a gun was cocked. A foot flipped me over.

"You move and I'll put this bullet through your shoulder. You don't need your arm to live, now do you?" Garrett said angrily, pressing a foot down on my chest to keep me from getting up. He leaned over me, face furious. Panting, I closed my eyes, hoping for the first time in my life that NCIS would show up. I heard some loud swearing, and then someone spit. "Did the bitch get any of your teeth?" Garrett asked.

"Fuck no. She broke my goddamn nose." Dean's voice was clubbed now from the swelling in his nose, and I felt a pang of satisfaction. His footsteps came over, then stopped. Then, something slammed down on my shoulder with enough force to make me scream as it dislocated. The scream echoed through the empty barn eerily. "How did you like that, huh?" He hissed, then kicked me in the ribs. Something hit my face, breaking the skin. As blood ran down my cheek, I felt someone stand me up, and I opened my eyes. Dean's nose was swelling to twice its normal size, blood spilling down his lips and chin. He leaned close, holding me by the front of the shirt. "This is the last time I'm going to ask you nicely. Where is the money?" He said softly, dangerously, blood from his nose dripping onto my shirt.

"There is no money," I croaked, and he decked me across the face again. This time, I felt the bone under my eye break. Hands caught my slumping body, and a hand grabbed my chin. I glared openly at Dean, and for the first time in my life, I wanted to hurt someone; cause them pain. Panting, I looked right into Dean's eyes, hoping to inspire any guilt or hesitation in him- I wanted him to see my defiance, my lack of fear so that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't shoot.

"I guess I'm going to have to shoot you, Rayne. Your friends at NCIS obviously don't give a fuck about your miserable little life." Dean said, sneering into my face. He reached out with his free hand, and Garrett gave him the gun. Dean raised it to my temple, and for the briefest of seconds, I wondered if I'd finally get to meet my mother.

"Actually, we do." The hard, cold voice of Special Agent Gibbs suddenly rang through the air, and I heard the sounds of four guns being loaded—he wasn't alone. "Put your hands in the air." He continued, and Dean smirked, glancing down at me. I glared back, adrenaline rushing through me, numbing pain. Suddenly, he gave me a hard shove, forcing me to stumble backwards. Then the sound of a gun-shot exploded into the silence of the barn, and a searing hot pain spread from the center of my chest. I didn't even feel myself hit the ground as two more shots rang through the air, then shouts. "Rayne? Can you hear me? _Rayne?" _I heard Gibbs calling, and a small warm pressure on my chest as a coldness started to steal through me, magnifying my pain to an unbearable level. I shuddered with the effort it took just to open my eyes and look at him. His usually steely grey eyes were the first thing I noticed about Gibbs. They were uncharacteristically panicked, even when they focused on my face. He had both hands pressed dead center on my chest, trying to apply pressure to the bullet hole. Someone cut the rope off my wrists.

"The ambulance is on it's way," someone said, their voice just on the edge of panicking as I shuddered harder, still looking at Gibbs, feeling blood seep down my sides and neck.

My eyes closed.

"_No!_" Gibbs yelled at me, half angry, half desperate. I forced my eyes to flutter back open. It was like he was ordering me not to die. I struggled to comply.

"I'm sorry," I breathed, my body starting to go numb. Inbetween shudders, I was barely panting—it hurt too much to breathe.

"Never say you're sorry. It's a sign of weakness." Gibbs said quickly, as if from memory.

"But—I am—weak," I panted, and then groaned at the pain that exploded in my lungs from trying to talk and breathe at the same time. It felt like tiny sharp knives were piercing my lungs.

"You're not weak, Rayne. You're not weak." Gibbs repeated, shifting his hands and pressing harder, making me gasp. I could barely feel his hands anymore, just the reactionary pain that came from his movements. Against all my will, my eyes drifted shut again, and sound started to die as lots of footsteps suddenly echoed through the empty barn.

Then, silence.

_Something _was beeping. The sound was annoying.

I hurt all over. It felt like a giant weight was strapped to my chest—breathing was a workout. Why did it hurt so much? All of a sudden, I remembered. The two men entering the store, my attempt to escape with the wrench, waking up in a horse stall…Dean and Garrett beating the shit out of me, asking about my mother's insurance policy…being shot; the roar of the gun. Gibbs kneeling next to me, pressing hard on my chest as blood oozed down my sides, forming a puddle in the dirt…

"Hi, honey," A kind voice said as I opened my eyes. Everything was white, but directly in front of me was a nurse—I was in a hospital. My eyes slowly adjusted to pick out different shades of white, the edge of the bed, the blankets, and the cabinets on the wall. "You're in Bethesda Naval Hospital. How are you feeling?" She asked, and I closed my eyes for a second.

"Like shit," I barely had the strength to say it, but I did. The nurse lightly patted one of my hands, and I just then realized that the other was in a sling.

"I'll get your first of kin so you can see him for awhile." She said, and disappeared. Seconds later, she came back with Vinny Hughes, my best doctor friend in the universe.

"Oh God, Rayne! How do you feel?" He asked, sitting next to me and nervously patting my free hand, minding the IV.

"Not good," I croaked, and he looked at me miserably. "How—bad- am I?" I forced out, closing my eyes to avoid showing Vinny how much those four words hurt.

"Bad," He said softly. "The bullet shattered your sternum and got about a quarter of the way through your pericardium. Any farther and it would have killed you instantly. You lost a lot of blood. Your shoulder is dislocated, and you have several small cracks in the bones of your arms and legs, but they aren't breaks. God, Rayne, I'm so sorry."

"Not—your fault-, Vinny." I breathed, my whole body tense to keep out of pain as much as possible.

"Rayne? NCIS is here, and they want to talk to you. Are you too tired yet? I'll tell them to wait longer here if I have to."

"S-Send them—in," I forced out, and smiled weakly at Vinny as he leaped to his feet instantly to do as I asked.

"I'll be back," he promised, and then disappeared, just like the nurse. I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to groan in pain.

"Not too long, alright? She's due for medication soon." I heard the nurse reprimand, and then a quiet set of footsteps entered and the person took Vinny's spot.

"Rayne?" Gibbs' voice asked, and I opened my eyes again. He was sitting on the edge of the chair, either nervous or angry, I couldn't tell which. He looked like he was restraining himself from taking my hand like Vinny had.

"Hi," I rasped, tensing as usual, making me wince. Gibbs winced too.

"I came to tell you that Dean Koziol and Garrett Weber have both been arrested for your father's murder, as well as what they did to you." Gibbs started, and I squeezed my eyes shut, hastily repressing my memories of those two men before I started to cry. "I also came to apologize." Gibbs said, and I opened my eyes out of curiosity and surprise. "I was just doing my job—but I did it the worst way possible for you. I'm sorry." He repeated.

"You told—me a-apologizing—" I broke off, unable to suppress the tiny groan that escaped- talking just hurt too much. Breathing was a challenge; talking was impossible.

"That apologizing was a sign of weakness?" Gibbs quickly finished for me, and I nodded jerkily, eyes squeezing shut again. "It is. But everyone is weak. Weak is normal. We can't be superhuman all the time. Besides, sometimes you have to admit that you were wrong." He said, being uncharacteristically friendly and open.

"I didn't- make it any e-easier." I whispered, and Gibbs chuckled softly, surprising me again.

"No, you actually made me follow the law." He said, and then a nurse came in.

"I insist that Ms. Grean is left to rest. She got out of surgery only a day ago." The nurse pushed.

"That's fine. I'll be back." Gibbs promised, quickly standing up. He left with a heartfelt goodbye, surprising me further. It was amazing how his personality had seemed to do a complete 180.

"Here, this will help you sleep. It'll ease your pain," the nurse said, injecting something into my IV. Seconds later, I was at peace.


	8. Chapter 8

_Gibbs_

"_Family of Rayne Grean?" The nurse called, and I quickly stood up. _

"_How is she doing?" I asked lowly, ignoring how McGee and DiNozzo exchanged looks over my behavior. _

"_The surgery was successful. The bullet fragments were all removed," She handed me a jar full of tiny slivers of bullet. "Reconstruction of the sternum took much longer than we thought, especially because we had to bypass her heart to stitch closed the hole in her pericardium. However, she's been moved to a room. When she wakes up, we'll let you know." She said sympathetically. _

"_Did you find anything in her physical? It needs to be documented for the investigation." I asked, and the nurses' face dropped. _

"_Her medical records where highly incomplete. Of the broken bones that were reported, we found more than double when we performed x-rays. It looks as if the abuse Ms. Grean received is worse than anyone thought."_

"_Was a rape SAE performed?" I asked, filling with dread. __**(A/N: Rape SAE kits or Rape Sexual Assault Evidence Kits are used in real life.) **_

"_Yes, I'll have that sent to your labs as well, along with the updated x-rays and a full report of the newest injuries. Once she's feeling better, your agents can come in to collect other evidence."_

* * *

Walking out of the hospital, I called Abby, trying to fight down another wave of dread. She'd had the SAE kit for over two hours now, and was bound to have something. "Do you have anything, Abby?" I asked, getting into my car as she picked up the phone.

"Yes. Rayne Grean was not raped by Dean Koziol or Garrett Weber. However, she's not a virgin. It's impossible to tell if she was raped previously, or chose to have sex." Abby said quietly, and I let out a deep breath. It was better news than I'd been hoping for. "Is she ok?"

"The surgery was a success. Once she heals more, I'll talk to her. McGee and DiNozzo are on security detail. Ziva is at the crime scene yet."

"And I have a boatload of evidence to process. I'll talk to you later—and please bring a Caf-Pow!, I'm dying back here." Abby whined.

"I'll see what I can do." I said, unable to not smile. As Abby processed the evidence, the story of what happened to Rayne came together. After being kidnapped from her home in Dumfries, she was thrown in the bed of Dean Koziol's truck, bound, and transported to the abandoned barn that belonged to Garrett Weber's great grandfather. Once they were there, they locked her in a horse stall. While they waited for her to wake up, they dug a hole four miles away, clearly preparing to dump her body. Abby had their fingerprints on the rope used to tie up Rayne, the wrench they beat her with, the stable door, the stools, and the shovels used to dig the hole. The gun was registered to Koziol. The case was airtight, and for that, I was grateful. It meant that Rayne didn't have to testify in court.

Waiting was hard. It would be a waste of time to wait around at the hospital until I could talk to Rayne again, so I stayed away as long as I could before going crazy. I couldn't help but care for Rayne's safety. She had lost her mother and father, and I'd lost my wife and daughter. For some reason, I felt connected to her. I wanted to know how she'd move forward with her life, and I wanted to make sure that she stayed safe. Finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I went back to the hospital. "Agent Gibbs," The secretary greeted me as I walked into intensive care. "Ms. Grean is stable and doing better. A lot of the pain she was feeling earlier is under control."

"Good. Can I see her?" I asked, and she nodded, pushing the button that controlled the doors, letting me through. After a few twists and turns, I moved silently to the doorway and looked in. Rayne was propped up in bed, electrodes coming out from underneath her hospital gown. With her free hand, she had a book spread open on her lap, reading, her other arm done up in a sling. Her face was still battered and bruised, but the deeper cuts had been bandaged and probably stitched closed. Around both of her wrists were thick bandages from where the thin, sharp, nylon rope had cut into her skin. After looking at her for a second, I knocked lightly on the doorframe, making her head shoot up. "Rayne," I greeted her, walking into the room, trying to forget how it'd felt to feel her blood ooze over my hands, gushing with her pulse.

"Agent Gibbs," She greeted me, sounding slightly confused. She slowly dog-eared her page and then closed her book. On a closer glance, I saw the title: _Street Law. _"Can I help you?" She asked, setting the book on the vanity.

"Just wanted to see how you were doing," I said easily, coming over and sitting on the chair beside her. She laughed, then winced, pressing a hand to her chest.

"Something tells me there is something else you want from me." She said, and her openness surprised me. Our exchanges had always been cold, but maybe we could make a fresh start.

"Yeah, well, I've learned to multitask." I said, and a smile twitched at her lips. "Still studying law?" I asked, and she glanced at the book, then shrugged lightly.

"College has been put on hold, obviously, so I thought I'd stay caught up." She said, adjusting the strap on her sling.

"So you'll be leaving Dumfries, then?" I asked, and she frowned.

"I'll be leaving nothing behind but some bad memories. How does this pertain to your investigation?" I asked, and I leaned forward.

"It doesn't. I wanted to know." I said simply, and she raised an eyebrow, wincing again as it stretched a cut.

"Why?" She asked, looking confused.

"Because I care." I said truthfully, and she blinked, looking surprised and almost a little hurt.

"Well, you've joined a short list of those who do, Agent Gibbs. Now, what can I do for you?" She asked, looking away, and I felt my brow crease. She put herself down all the time—had her father enforced that idea in her head?

"I'm here to talk about what happened." I said carefully, starting slowly, watching her expression. Her eyes immediately went blank, her face smoothing; it was like looking at a wall. That kind of reaction was not what I was expecting.

"You need to be more specific." She said, already guessing that we'd finally figured out just how much abuse she had taken in the short 18 years she'd been alive.

"Let's start at the beginning then." I suggested. "You're medical records were incomplete." I stated the obvious, but she shook her head.

"They weren't incomplete. I only went to the hospital when it was absolutely necessary- and they only took x-rays of the injury I came in for." She said, and I just stared at her. "Ok, look, they would always ask me if something more was going on, or if I wanted them to perform a more…thorough physical, but I always said no. I couldn't afford it." She said after meeting my gaze and quickly looking away.

"So, what, you'd just set the bones at home?" I asked in disbelief, filling with shock when she nodded like it was nothing.

"There was plenty of booze around to numb the pain, and if I really needed help, I'd go to Vinny, the doctor who works at the skating rink. It's not as bad as you'd think." She said a bit defensively as I just kept staring at her, getting angrier by the minute. No kid should ever have to stay home from the hospital and _set their own broken bones._ She was stronger than I ever could have imagined, but it was also horrifying. "Agent Gibbs, are you ok?" Her voice broke me out of my angry daydream (I was picturing what I'd do to her father if he was still alive). She looked worried, watching me closely.

"Fine. What happened in the shop with those two?" I asked, and her face instantly went blank again- she knew exactly what I was talking about.

"I was working on a car. They came in, and I said the place was closed. Then _Dean _pulled a gun on me." She said, her voice hard. "His friend robbed the store—took all the money from the register. After that, I tried to escape by hitting both of them with the wrench, one in the ear and one in the shoulder. One of them grabbed the wrench and turned it on me." She said stiffly.

"You hit the two of them real good." I complimented her, but she didn't smile. She _still_ didn't have a feeling of satisfaction for hurting others, even after what those two did to her. Her ability to control her own emotions to think logically was astounding.

"After that, I woke up in the horse stall. From there, they moved me to the ring, tied me to one of the stools, and started asking where the money from the life insurance policy was." She continued, voice eerily neutral. "I bluffed and told them that there wasn't one."

"Do you know where the money is?" I asked her, and she nodded without hesitation.

"Remember the highest car stack in the lot? That's where I sleep mostly- all of the money is directly in the car below it under the dash. There's about four hundred and ninety seven thousand dollars in there."

"Enough for your education and then some." I prompted, and she shrugged. "Rayne, if you need to talk to anyone about what's happened-"

"I don't." She said brusquely, interrupting me.

"Rayne, you can't keep this all bottled up inside. You don't have to hide anything anymore; you don't have to protect anyone anymore." I said, watching her closely. She grimaced to the wall opposite, and then looked at me.

"I don't want to talk to a therapist. They make me feel some kind of fragile little victim, and I'm not." Rayne said after a minute of just looking at me. It was clearly difficult for her to share personal thoughts or emotions. "It's their business to know all of your business, and I don't like that at all."

"I was going to say that if you needed someone to talk to, I'm always open." I said, and her eyes widened a little in surprise.

"I-I'm not sure I could do that," she said honestly, and I cocked an eyebrow, as if to say, _why not? _"This might seem stupid, even a little offensive, especially to you, but…I'm afraid of Marines, army personnel, police officers, you name it."

"Are you afraid now?" I asked after a second, and she hesitated, but then shook her head. "I don't want you to be afraid. You can trust me." I said, leaning back as I said it. Rayne didn't say anything; she just grimaced once more, looking away. "The case is airtight, so we won't be contacting you to testify in court. The case is closed, Rayne. We won't be bothering you anymore." I said after a moment of silence. I knew that it was hard to open up, especially to someone you didn't know and still instinctively feared. I withdrew my card and placed it on top of her book on the vanity. "If you ever need _anything, _anything at all, you call that number." I said with as much firmness as I thought she could handle. Rayne turned to look at me then, eyes sad. "Goodbye, Rayne." I said after another moment of silence. When she didn't answer, I turned for the door.

"Semper Fi," her voice was so quiet, I almost didn't catch it. I turned back to smile at her, suddenly very glad that she'd put forth the obvious effort to say those two little words. Somehow, I knew that Rayne Grean would be alright.

"Semper Fi." I repeated, giving her a thankful nod before striding out.

* * *

**Ω**


End file.
